When I was 13, my grandma gave me a gift. Ignoring the heavily hinted-for Arsenal season ticket, she gave me a Magen David necklace which I deemed of considerably less spiritual value. Complying with societal norms of politeness, I thanked her profusely, threw on the necklace and haven’t taken it off since. (I’ve since purchased my own Arsenal season ticket and I think it’s fair to call it a slow burn.)
As soon as I clicked the hook shut on that necklace, I knew it would immediately signal to the world that I was a Jew. What I didn’t anticipate was that it would also afford me a huge and at times heavy responsibility.
My grandma, in an incredibly Jewish way, always spoke to us children as if we were 53-year-old diplomats with a broad and considered knowledge of both geopolitics and the human condition. Her musings on the fate of the Jewish people across the diaspora were often lost on me. One thing she did say upon giving me the necklace was, as ever, something I wouldn’t be able to fully comprehend for some time: that I was now entrusted with “undoing the wrongs done to us on a personal and political level”. Whilst the depths of this were not fully understood by a Year 8, I somewhat grasped the notion of responsibility she was conveying of being visibly Jewish.
At under one per cent of the country, there are fewer Jews than there are vegans (3.5 million) or octogenarians (579,000). Most people in this country have never met a Jew. Most people in the world have never met a Jew. Interestingly, 77 per cent of those who harbour antisemitic attitudes have never met a Jew. Even more interestingly, research has shown an inverse relationship between the number of Jews in a country and the spread of antisemitic attitudes there. That is, the fewer the Jews in a particular country, the more numerous the antisemites. Hating the Jew you’ve never met. Swathes of this country remain immune from Hebrew charm. Trust me, I’ve been to Telford.
My grandma instilled in us that it was imperative when in the company of gentiles that we remain visibly Jewish and subsequently on our best behaviour. With hindsight, this may have been a sly but effective technique to keep her grandchildren in line; plaster them in Judaica and tell them they’re representing the tribe.
This “best behaviour” had broad remits. We were told to tip generously, to offer our seats on a train, to give money to those in need, to be “the good immigrant”. It was our responsibility to undo any previous misconceptions and we carried that burden with us wherever we may be. I’ve seen this manifested in a variety of ways. Friends who went to Jewish schools particularly noted it when in Jewish school uniform, or those who wore kippot.
I was on a walking tour of Belfast with some friends a few years back and the tour guide broke into an anecdote of a Jewish East End tour he’d stumbled across when visiting London a while back. He then, of course, said to the largely international crowd: “Now, I don’t know what you’ve heard about the Jews but he had a card reader at the end.”
So I was in the Catch 22 with the audience of fellow tourists who clocked my Magen David. I was obviously disinclined from tipping this open racist yet if I didn’t tip… I’m stingy and, crucially, Jews are stingy.
This has happened countless times — visibly overtipping for an average meal when with new friends, buying an adult train ticket at 19 when all of my friends would still purchase a child’s fare. I’ve had a hard time convincing my WASP friends of this. Surely not, they protested.
Interestingly, friends in other minorities have echoed a strong sense of fellow-feeling. An Asian friend summarised it as “representing your entire peoplehood with your train etiquette”.
It often leaves you with that dual problem: potential antisemitism for being identifiably Jewish and then the responsibility of representing world Jewry whilst being identifiably Jewish. My grandma taught me that it was our responsibility to instil a positive image of Judaism in the hearts and minds of society. A well-meaning instruction surely born of a time when keeping your head down was the safest way to exist in a hostile society.
I roam the streets of the country with the Magen David around my neck. I’ve never been prouder to call myself Jewish and wearing that necklace challenges me to be the best version of me I can be — whether for the good of the Jewish people or for my grandma.
